


Maybe She Knows What She Needs

by sunken_standard



Series: So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like? [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: She wished Sherlock would slow down.





	Maybe She Knows What She Needs

**Author's Note:**

> This installment does nothing to advance the overall story, just enjoy it for the porn.

She wished Sherlock would slow down.

 

She looked at the clock one last time before heading upstairs to bed; 11:34. It wasn't as though she was waiting up for him, there'd been a programme on telly and then she packed her lunch and washed a dish she'd left soaking, did the odd bit of tidying. Same things she would have done before he started coming round, before half-living at Tom's, before the _thing_ with Sherlock started. She maybe looked at her phone a bit more, her eyes drifted to the door more often, but she wasn't waiting.

 

She didn't want him to slow down just so he would come round more and shag her senseless, or so they could have a meal together the way they sometimes did; she was starting to worry about him again. He put on a good show of being normal, but The Game, the not knowing and being unable to move forward, was taking its toll. He got very little enjoyment from his work and all he _did_ was work; if they were different people she would suggest they take a mini-break somewhere just so he could recharge a bit.

 

She smirked around her toothbrush, glancing up at herself in the bathroom mirror. Fancy that, her and Sherlock having a dirty weekend in the country. She couldn't exactly picture him rambling along some track in the Peak district or sampling local cheeses or, well, anything regular people did. Not that she'd really want to, either, but she wouldn't mind a few days in Paris again or a bit of time in the sun. They weren't really like that, though. Somewhere between friends with benefits and an old married couple that had just forgone all the usual romance. And the love, but she wasn't going to start thinking about that again.

 

What they had was almost routine at this point. Most nights he came round after she was already in bed; sometimes she heard him downstairs doing whatever in her kitchen or lounge and she left him to it, falling asleep until he eventually came to bed. Sometimes he'd come over early enough for dinner, they would talk about things they'd always talked about (his work, her work, things they'd read, things that happened to them during the day, just _things_ ), sometimes he would go to bed first or she would (rarely ever together unless the sex was going to happen right away), then there would be sex (which wasn't always amazing, but never disappointing), sometimes they talked some more, sometimes they slept right away, sometimes (rarely) they went for round two.

 

Sherlock usually left sometime after she did in the morning if it was a workday, though sometimes he left while she was getting ready for work if he had somewhere to be; only once did he stay an entire bank holiday weekend, and that was only because he had a really nasty summer cold and didn't want to be around Mrs. Hudson or the Watsons. He didn't come around much on weekends, since he had extended 'office' hours. He still managed to turn up at hers two or three days a week, though, sometimes more. Sometimes they had sex almost every night, other times it was less than once a fortnight. She had the suspicion that it might be the only thing keeping him from going over the edge entirely, but maybe that was giving herself too much credit.

 

She stripped down to her pants; it was too cold to go without at least a t-shirt. Wouldn't be if Sherlock did show up, he was like a bloody furnace, but she couldn't count on that. She double-checked her alarm, her phone, slipped into bed.

 

She knew he had nightmares. One doesn't sleep next to a person for more than a year without getting to know some things about their sleeping habits, and she was never the soundest sleeper, anyway. She never tried to wake him and he never talked about them, so it was another one of those things she just let be. She didn't want him to wall her off or push her away for being too nosy about whatever it was; he was already more open with her than he ever had been before and more than he was with anyone else, from what she could tell.

 

It was that thought that kept her from ending it. It wasn't that she wanted to, exactly, but she thought she _should_. That it would be better for the both of them to just go back to being friends if they couldn't be a proper couple. It wasn't as though she needed to find a partner—she made a good wage and lived within her means, even managed her own very nice flat in central London without having to share with anyone. She didn't really think about kids; once upon a time, maybe, but now she didn't think so. She'd long resigned herself to dying alone, neglected in a care home or some underfunded geriatric ward, not that it much mattered. Dying surrounded by loved ones didn't change the inevitability of death; it didn't matter to the dead who remembered them afterwards.

 

She sighed and rolled over to face Sherlock's side of the bed. She wasn't usually this bleak about things, or at least, not as prone to navel-gazing; this whole thing with Sherlock was starting to take its toll on her, too, both the arrangement itself and his insane drive to be omniscient. She had to keep reminding herself they weren't in that kind of relationship; she wasn't his wife, she wasn't his girlfriend, she wasn't responsible for his health and well-being. She had to stop letting it affect her.

 

Ha. As if she could.

 

She reached out and smoothed her hand over the empty space where Sherlock would be; he used to sleep on her side when she wasn't there, but he'd stopped doing that. She sometimes missed being able to smell him on her pillow, silly as it was. She rolled over again, her back to his side of the bed, a bit disgusted with how moony she was.

 

She must have drifted off; she came awake to Sherlock shuffling around behind her. She hadn't even heard him come in this time. She glanced at the clock; almost one. "You just get in?" she asked.

 

"Mm," he grunted. He seemed a little preoccupied, but when wasn't he, these days?

 

"Everything okay?"

 

"Mhm. Long day, nothing interesting."

 

She made a noise of acknowledgement and stretched against him; might as well wake up a bit and talk to him while she had the chance. Or maybe a bit more; he was already naked. Sometimes he slept like that even when they weren't going to have sex, though.

 

"Same," she said, sliding her hand over his and tipping her face up to kiss his chin. It was an offer, since he might not be in the mood for talking. She hoped he would maybe want to fool around a little bit at least; that wasn't something they really ever did, but she wished sometimes it was. She supposed that was part of the arrangement, anything more was outside of their unspoken rules; no kissing and touching just for the sake of it, only as a gateway to sex.

 

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment before dipping in to kiss her. She turned in his arms, letting go of his hand and looping an arm around his neck as she kissed him back; it only went on for a few moments before he rolled her onto her back and wedged a thigh between hers. She loved it when he was assertive like that, she loved the solid press of his body against hers. Being the one in charge was nice, but she didn't always want to do all the work.

 

Over the last few months, he'd lost most of the tentativeness he used to have about him; she thought it took him that long to finally be totally comfortable with sex. Well, maybe not totally comfortable, there were still times he looked... disconcerted right after. She didn't know how many other women he'd slept with, but she didn't think it was very many, and none in any kind of ongoing relationship. He didn't act like a man who'd had a lot of experience. Which was fine, except sometimes it made her feel like a bit of a slapper for having as many partners as she'd had. Sherlock made a baker's dozen, lucky number thirteen. Of course she knew women her age with more, _a lot_ more, but conditioning and societal expectation were still a powerful thing.

 

He paused for a moment, hovering above her as he traced her hairline and drew his fingertip over the shell of her ear before cupping her jaw; she wished it weren't so dark in the room so she could see his face more clearly, to know what he was thinking. He was always so tender, so passionate, always focused on her; she'd never had a partner that was so... _present_ during the act. Like every time meant something.

 

There was something else, too, a kind of sadness about him. It was always there, only it was closer to the surface when they were together like this. She understood it in a vague, omnipresent, _Sehnsucht_ kind of way; there was more to it than that, and she wished she could do something to ease it.

 

He leaned in and kissed her. She kissed back, running her hands over his skin. It was almost like a game; he tried not to react outwardly when she hit a sweet spot, so she tried to get all of them. She could tell by the way he broke the kiss to gasp and pant against her mouth that she was doing a proper job of it. The press of his cock, hard and hot against her hip, certainly bore that out.

 

He slipped his hand under her shirt and covered her breast, squeezing once just this side of rough before gently pinching her nipple. She throbbed from the sensation, her hips bucking as she sought friction against his leg. The arousal was an urgent thing, the kind that made her thighs and lower back tense, a flood of wetness soaking through her pants as his tongue swiped over her bottom lip.

 

She needed more, _now_ ; she pushed him away enough to get her pants off, then her shirt. He reached for her and she rolled him onto his back, deciding that she wanted to be the one in control after all.

 

She hadn't even settled herself on top of him before his hands were on her tits again; it was vindicating to know how greedy he always was for them. He urged her forward with a hand on her back until his mouth closed over her nipple, the feeling of it tugging something deep inside her.

 

"Oh fuck," she said, so turned on she was actually light-headed. She wanted to fuck him so badly it almost hurt, but she didn't want it to be over so soon. She gripped his cock, taking a moment to just enjoy the weight and the heat of it as she stroked him. She had an idea, something she'd always wanted to try but just never had the right partner at the right time; she pressed his cock down against his belly and moved forward to slide him between her labia.

 

It felt just as good as she imagined it would; between the suction on her breast and the friction and pressure against her clit, she thought she was going to die before she ever reached orgasm. She began to move faster, sitting up to change the angle when Sherlock just couldn't keep his mouth on her any longer, even while using a hand to support her breast; she wondered if he liked the show he was getting. She thought so, by the way his hands gripped her thighs, holding himself back.

 

She didn't want him to hold back, she wanted him to fuck her senseless. God, she wanted him to hold her hips in place and pound into her or flip her over and fuck her through the mattress, anything, she just needed to—

 

"Oh fuck, I'm gonna come, fuck, oh, oh, I'm coming," she moaned as she ground against him, the tension in her body finally snapping with her orgasm—quick, intense, transcendent.

 

Christ, she couldn't believe she'd just done that. She'd probably be embarrassed about it tomorrow, but right then, she just wanted _more_.

 

"Do you think you can pull out?" she asked, leaning over him. She didn't give him a chance to answer before she kissed him, stealing his breath like a succubus.

 

It was dangerous, but she didn't care. She'd probably regret it in the morning when she was waiting in line at the chemist, but right now, she just wanted to _feel_ him, all of him.

 

"Wh—what?" he managed against her mouth.

 

"Can you pull out in time if you fuck me without a condom?" she reiterated. She hoped the answer was yes, but right then she didn't care. If something happened, unlikely as that was, they'd deal with it.

 

"I—yes, I think so," he said quickly. The look on his face was priceless, a mix of fear and anticipation and naked desire; he looked twenty years younger and so, so innocent.

 

Her heart swelled with a rush of complex emotion; soft and warm and loving, something oddly maternal and protective, and a heady feeling of absolute dominance and control. She kissed him, hoping she could convey some small part of that with her mouth, her body. She shifted just enough and rolled her hips just so; he pressed forward as she leaned back and there he was, the head of his cock just pushing into her.

 

She moaned softly as he slid deeper; it had only been a few days since they'd last had sex, but it felt like years. It was always so much better without a condom, so much closer, so much hotter. He gripped her hips and pulled her down against him, and yeah, that was working for her. She wanted it a bit rougher, a bit more physical than it usually was; she loved how gentle he could be, how reverent and respectful, but she really just wanted to be fucked properly right then. She started to move, hoping he'd meet her halfway or take over.

 

He palmed her arse instead, always along for the ride, but that was okay, too. She leaned down to kiss him; she could never get enough of his mouth, especially when he was inside her. There was something so intimate about kissing during the act, another way of communicating without words—

 

"Molly," he murmured urgently against her mouth, "I don't trust myself like this."

 

_Just give in, then_ , she thought, reckless and wild with how much she wanted him. _Lose control, just once_.

 

She stopped moving anyway, simply feeling the thickness and solidity of him inside her while she kissed him. She pulled off and he rolled her over, urging her thighs wider apart so he could kneel between them, his body pressing her into the mattress until he shifted his weight off her to wedge a hand between them. She wished he would pin her down, let her fuck herself against him.

 

He started off slowly, and that wasn't what she wanted; she kissed him with the kind of intensity she hoped conveyed that she needed more. He got the message, he was rather clever after all, and pulled back, changing his angle so he could fuck her properly. She wormed a hand between them because he never lasted long like this, which was its own kind of thrill—knowing she could overwhelm him with her body alone.

 

He leaned down again to kiss her chin, her neck. "You feel so good," he said, something urgent and almost lost in his tone. She loved how sex took him apart like that, unhinged him.

 

She turned her face into his, nipped his earlobe. "I don't want you to pull out."

 

She didn't. She didn't care about an accident or consequences or any of it, she _wanted_. Needed, even. She needed the connection, the intimacy, _him_. All of him, as much as she could get.

 

He slowed down a bit, the opposite of what she was hoping for. Of course he had to argue. "Don't want to, either. Really should, though."

 

"I know, I know, I just—" she moaned, still fucking herself on him, feeling herself getting close and wanting him there, too. "I want you, I want it, just this once, it should be fine."

 

"I want to, I really, really want to come inside you," he said quickly, punctuating with his teeth against her neck. The barest hint of his lisp came through and pulled at something else in her, a surge of love so deep and tender and strong that she almost couldn't breathe from it.

 

God, his _voice_ , his body, everything. He was everything, she _wanted_ everything. "Fuck, do it, come inside me," she pleaded, needing to have that ultimate experience, even if it was the only time it ever happened.

 

He made the most tortured little noise as he gave in, kissed her, fucked her, loved her; the sheer passion of the moment combined with the press and rub of her fingers took her over the edge. He pulled away quickly, before she was finished; she glanced down in time to see his cock jump with the first thick pulse of semen, then another and another as he came on her, marked her as his.

 

She rubbed herself through the last of the aftershocks, oddly disappointed even though the visual of it had been one of the most erotic things she'd ever seen.

 

He leaned in to kiss her, apologized against her mouth.

 

"Probably better. It was still really hot," she said, smiling before she kissed him again. She stroked his softening cock to draw out his pleasure. It was always such a delicate, tender kind of gesture; so many men didn't want her to do it and she didn't normally with him, but he seemed to enjoy the touch, shivering and kissing his way through it.

 

He pulled away, rolled part-way off of her, one hand resting gently against the side of her neck. He looked at her with such softness, such fondness, that she could almost convince herself this was something more. She tore her eyes away, looked down her own body to her come-splattered skin; she couldn't help but drag her fingers through it.

 

Sherlock's breath hitched as he watched her; apparently that was doing it for him. It was doing it for her, too, or maybe it was just the feedback loop of his enjoyment heightening hers. Didn't matter. He leaned in to kiss her again, ran his hand over her breast, her side, her hip, massaged her inner thigh. He moved higher, caressing her labia; the gentle touch had her gasping.

 

He'd never really done that before, never really explored with his fingers. She always assumed it just wasn't his thing and took charge of her own body, just as she always had done in the past. It felt more oddly intimate now, a year on from the only time he'd ever offered—oh. Maybe he'd thought she didn't want to be touched like that after that first time she'd turned him down.

 

She found herself not caring, wrapped up in the sensation of his touch. She couldn't remember the last time someone had made love to her like this, keeping it going until she was wrung out and exhausted. She got lost in it, outside herself, kissing him, breathing him in.

 

She jumped at the first brush of his finger against her oversensitive clit; the way he asked her if it was too much was so... _caring_ that it made her ache.

 

Everything was slower, less urgent. Sherlock seemed be enjoying learning what she liked, how to touch her. It was the kind of thing that could go on for ages, lazy and almost decadent. She was so completely in the moment, aware of the feel of him under her hands, his scent, the roughness of his stubble, his breath against her skin.

 

She felt herself getting closer, sweating and straining to reach that peak just one more time (and oh, she'd have a sex hangover tomorrow, but she didn't care, she just wanted him to make her come again); she panted and clung to him, making the kinds of noises she'd be embarrassed about later because they sounded like something straight from bad porn.

 

"You're beautiful," he said, his tone hushed and almost awed. It wasn't the kind of thing she was used to hearing much, and never from him, never so sincerely. He kissed her, rough and needy like he couldn't help himself.

 

The sheer surprise of it, the way it made her _feel_ beautiful, was enough to set her off, the crest of her orgasm so intense she thought she would levitate off the bed before curling into him, every muscle in her body pulling inward with the power of it. He withdrew his hand, rested it over her mound, possessive.

 

When it subsided, she pressed a tired kiss to his mouth, unable to do much else. She loved him so much she almost wanted to cry with the strength of it.

 

"Thank you," she whispered, grateful for what she had in him, for the pleasure and the companionship and just everything. She smiled at him and he kissed her with so much affection that she could almost believe that this thing _was_ more than just what it was on the surface, that maybe they were headed toward something real together. She wrapped her arms around him, held him tightly, unwilling to let the moment go just yet.

 

She woke sometime later, surprised at herself for having fallen asleep without realizing. Sherlock's body was lax against hers; she took a moment to just listen to his slow, steady breathing, feel the heat coming off of him before she slipped out of bed.

 

She looked at herself in the mirror as she waited for the water from the tap to get warm. Her face was still pinkish from beard-burn, but that would be gone by the time she woke up again, her hair was a rat's nest, her lips were plumper than usual and felt a bit bruised and raw. She had the barest shadow of a love bite on her neck; she remembered the way his mouth felt, the way his body felt when he'd done it.

 

She wished it could be like that all the time. Well, maybe not quite so intense, but the closeness of it, like they were really together. Now that her head had cleared from the fog of hormones and endorphins, she knew that _together_ probably wasn't in the cards. It had been more than a year; if it was going to happen, it would have happened within the first six months.

 

She really had to stop being so reckless. There wasn't a bigger future for them and she needed to keep that in mind. She understood why they used to described it as being 'swept away' and 'losing her head'; good sense flew out the window when she was with him.

 

She was crashing, all her serotonin used up and leaving her a mess. She wasn't twenty anymore, marathon sex was a young woman's game. She moved back, looked at her breasts in the mirror. Sagging, but not as bad as they could be. Her nipples were hard and dark from the chill in the flat; she brushed her thumb over one and shivered. Still oversensitized. She usually loved how she could feel it in her body for hours after, but now she just felt used up, wrung out.

 

He wasn't the one using her, though, she was using herself. Deluding herself.

 

The mirror began to fog and she turned on the cold tap to temper the water, grabbed a flannel and quickly began to wash. She'd feel better when she was clean, she reasoned. She brushed her teeth again, drank a bit of water, went back to bed, trying to clamp down on the storm just below the surface.

 

Sherlock had rolled over half into her spot, like he tended to do; she slipped under the covers and curled onto her side, rationalizing that she didn't want to disturb him when, in reality, she didn't really want to wake him and be smothered in a cuddle just then. She wished she had it in her to wake him up and tell him to go home. She wished she actually wanted him to leave.

 

Sleep was a long time coming.

 

*

 

"So what time are you leaving?" she asked from the door to her bedroom.

 

"First flight to Marrakesh is at ten, so John will probably be at Baker Street by seven or so," he said, pulling his summer pyjamas from the drawer that had unofficially become his even before the sex thing started. "He's going to leave Rosie with Mrs. Hudson until Kate can get her."

 

"Mm." She wondered why John hadn't asked her to take Rosie after work. It was a silly thing to be bothered by, but she'd barely seen Rosie in the two months Mary had been gone and she wondered if John thought she had something to do with it, somehow. 

 

She always had the feeling he still held her involvement with Sherlock's faked death against her, even though he'd never said a word about it. She probably should have said something after Sherlock got back, some kind of apology or at least some kind of acknowledgement of her lie, but the timing was never right, and then she'd let it go too long. Whatever, it didn't matter, she had to work tomorrow anyway and Rosie would just end up being passed around like a hot potato until they got back.

 

Sherlock closed the drawer and stood, facing her. He had that scrutinizing, narrow-eyed look on his face, trying to figure something out.

 

"You're unhappy." He didn't often ask her about her feelings; like most men, he probably thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie. "You still think we should just leave Mary to her own devices."

 

There was that, too, but she really wasn't in the mood for  _that_ argument again. She couldn't let it pass, though, considering this might be her last chance to make him at least see her side of it. "Since you asked, yes. I do. If she thinks she needs to be away from her husband and child to keep them safe, then yeah, I do think she's got a definite reason and she knows what she's doing. She'll come back when she can."

 

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, his posture shifting into something both aggressive and defensive at the same time. His arguing stance.

 

"Molly, it's been two months. Who knows how much longer it could take until she does what she thinks needs to be done and she feels safe enough to come back? How much time is she going to lose with her family? And what if the unthinkable happens in the meantime?"

 

"She knows whatever-his-name-is—"

 

"Ajay."

 

"She knows Ajay better than you do. She knows how he thinks. If she thinks it's better to lead him away from what she wants to protect, then I'm going to trust her on that. A mother's instinct is always to pull her child closer to defend them, or to flee  _with_ them, but she made the choice to leave and you and I both know it's not because she just wanted a holiday."

 

Though, if she were being honest with herself, she did wonder. She got the feeling Mary wasn't always happy. She loved Rosie, that much was clear, but she didn't always act like other new mothers. Even Sherlock casually mentioned more than once how bored Mary was. Molly couldn't voice her half-formed suspicions, though; Sherlock was more rabidly protective of Mary than he'd ever been of anyone (which was something _else_ she didn't want to think about, because any kind of jealousy was silly, and doubly so when they weren't even a proper couple and the other woman was more-or-less happily married to and had a child with his best friend) and he would surely take issue with anything Molly said even when they _weren't_ having a row. 

 

Well, a sort-of row. An unusually loud disagreement that could easily turn into a proper row. Which they'd never really had before.

 

"I don't doubt her capability or her maternal instinct," Sherlock said quickly, testily. "But I can say with certainty that it's much harder to do things by yourself than it is when you have help. I had Mycroft and you, at least, when I was gone.  _She_ is her only resource. She's been a hausfrau for a year now and she's been out of the game for seven, she's rusty and she's going up against a highly volatile, psychologically scarred,  _continuously-active_ assassin hellbent on revenge.  _She needs us_ ."

 

"Maybe she knows what she needs better than you do." She loved him, she really did, but sometimes when he was like this, so up his own arse on a crusade or some righteous hero-complex power trip, she really couldn't stand him.

 

"And maybe she doesn't realize that she's not alone anymore and she has options," he said evenly. There was something else behind his words, and she couldn't quite put a finger on it, but she was certain he was equating himself to Mary.

 

She didn't know if he did it deliberately or if it was just something that crept out, but something about  _not alone anymore_ softened her. And, well, there was a grain of truth to what he said; when one spent their entire life being self-reliant, it felt unnatural to accept help or support from others, even if it made things easier, even if it really was needed. Molly could relate to that.

 

"And what are you going to do if she says no and won't come back?" she asked, not quite resigned but without the heat that had been there minutes before.

 

"Chloral hydrate," he said, straight-faced. She was pretty sure it was a joke. Well, mostly a joke. Mary had done it to him, after all, and if he and John were desperate enough...

 

"Don't give her a reason to shoot you this time," she said. She was only half-kidding herself. If Mary was cornered, she might put another bullet in him.

 

She hadn't ever really forgiven Mary for shooting him, but she'd at least let it go. Sherlock wasn't dead and he'd made a complete recovery (the missing third of his liver notwithstanding) and  _he'd_ forgiven Mary; Molly could even understand why Mary thought she had to do it, to a degree. Water under the bridge, since the alternative would have been drama and hardship and losing the only real friends she had left. Losing Sherlock.

 

"I'll just stay behind John. She's less likely to shoot through him just to get to me."

 

"You do see the quite obvious flaw in that plan, don't you?" she asked, looking pointedly at Sherlock's forehead and trying her best not to smile despite herself. "Unless he's suddenly taken to wearing elevator shoes. Really high ones."

 

She gave him a once-over, feet to hair, for emphasis.

 

"One of the many perils of being a tall poppy, I'm afraid," he said dryly.

 

She couldn't help herself; the corner of her mouth pulled into a half-smirk. Sherlock's posture relaxed; there was no air of smug self-satisfaction about him, so he didn't think he'd won. A draw, which was how the argument had played out every other time they'd had it.

 

That wasn't to say that everything was once again fine between them. It wasn't. Ever since the night Mary left, he'd been different. More distant. He blamed himself, _again_ , when he was in no way responsible for Mary's past coming back to bite her in the arse. At least, from what he'd told her of it; his involvement in the whole thing was coincidental.

 

He didn't believe in coincidence, though, _the universe was rarely so lazy_ and all that, so he found a way to make it about himself. If anything, him stumbling across the memory stick probably already saved Mary's life; it had given her a head start. Molly had said as much to him once and it hadn't been well-received.

 

The moment stretched on until it started to become awkward. She felt the overwhelming urge to touch him, to reassure herself they really were okay. That was a couple-thing, though, not a them-thing. He was looking at her with an unsure kind of expectation and she thought maybe he was feeling the same; she could never be certain, though.

 

Maybe after he got back she would finally say something, get it all out in the open. This thing had been going on for over a year—well, fourteen months since it first happened, not quite a year since it became a regular thing—not that she'd kept track of anniversaries or anything. It wasn't that she wanted a grand declaration or anything, but she really needed to know where he was at emotionally, and if that would ever line up with what she wanted in the long-term.

 

"Molly—" Sherlock began.

 

"Hm?" she answered, probably too quickly.

 

He hesitated, his expression changing into the one that accompanied a cascade of nonsense when he was trying to cover a slip of the tongue. "I probably shouldn't stay for very long. Need to finish packing... you know... things," he finished lamely, holding up the pyjamas clamped in his giant paw and giving them a little shake for emphasis.

 

She felt oddly disappointed; she assumed he wouldn't be staying the night, it was after nine already and if he had to be up for an early flight... But for him to make a point of telling her—it was weird. Unless he wanted to be talked into staying. Or maybe he wanted sex and didn't know how to initiate it without already being in bed. He'd only ever tried that one time, and she'd more or less rejected him, so maybe he was unsure of her reaction now.

 

"But you don't have to leave right away?" she asked, taking a step closer.

 

He looked at his watch and made a slightly exaggerated face. "I have some time, if you had anything in mind," he said casually.

 

"Sex?" she asked brightly, giving up on the entire pretence of flirting and subtlety because it was just awkward and weird and really not them anyway.

 

"Well when you put it that way," he said, his eyebrows raised and a smile playing about his lips. He tossed the pyjamas on the bed and took the four steps necessary to stand in front of her; it was a bit odd and yet completely natural to lean forward and slip her arms around his waist and tip her face up to look at him.

 

He slid his palms over her upper arms, his eyes skipping over her face in a way that was more like looking at a painting than when he was making his deductions. She thought for a moment he was going to kiss her, but he pulled her into a hug instead. That was another one of those things they didn't really do, only ever had done a handful of times in all the years they'd known each other.

 

The first time he hugged her had been a mad, desperate, scared thing; Moriarty had just revealed himself as Jim from IT and he'd come straight to her flat from the swimming pool to make sure she was alright. He'd practically crushed the life out of her with those skinny arms of his, then proceeded to grill her on everything she knew about Jim while he checked her flat for explosives.

 

_Ah, the good old days_ , she thought, turning her face and resting it against his chest.

 

The next time he'd hugged her had been years later, when he'd left her flat after being there for almost a fortnight after his suicide. That hug had been warm and kind of sad; she'd had the feeling he wasn't only hugging her, but everyone he was leaving behind. It was longer than a friendly hug and neither of them had really wanted to let go; she'd thought they both knew it was an out-of-place moment for the two for them, but they pretended not to care. Those two strange weeks of being ersatz flatmates had apparently made an impression on him, since he'd started spending a considerable amount of time there when he finally made it back to London.

 

He'd hugged her when he'd returned, of course, grunting in pain from the bruises on his torso that she'd later made him show her. That hug had been so open and happy and _relieved_ that she'd wondered more than once that if his lip hadn't been split he would have kissed her right then. He hadn't seen Tom's ring yet.

 

He'd hugged her in the receiving line at Mary and John's wedding; she'd hugged the bride and groom, so she had to hug Sherlock, too. That one wasn't anything to speak of, perfunctory, formal. Tom being there didn't exactly make it special, either.

 

She'd hugged him in his hospital bed every time she came to visit and before she left; human touch was important to healing.

 

He'd hugged her from behind that day he'd got out of prison, which had just been weird and all over the place. All the baggage of that day aside, she wouldn't mind that kind of hug again sometime, or creeping up behind him to hold him for a bit.

 

The last time he'd hugged her was right after Rosie had been born; they'd clung to each other in the hospital lobby. John had delivered Rosie in the middle of a tunnel, for Chrissakes, and Sherlock had had her on speaker to talk Mary through it. Molly was part of the original birth plan, after all, the standby birth partner in case John couldn't be there. Sherlock was trembling, she remembered, the after-effects of the adrenaline. His eyes had been a little red, too. He'd gone home with her that night and they'd had giggly, vigorous, life-affirming sex.

 

This hug wasn't like any of the others; it was the kind of hug that felt like _I'll miss you_ and _I don't like it when we disagree_. She almost didn't know what to make of it, it was so kind and sincere and longing. She held him that littlest bit tighter, rubbed her hand over his back, began to sway, giving into the instinct to comfort and care for. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she felt like some of the tension and the distance between them would lessen after they at least made contact with Mary, no matter if she came home or ran away again.

 

Sherlock curled around her, rested his cheek against the top of her head. He smoothed her hair and cradled the base of her skull, swaying with her briefly before pulling back; she tipped her face up to his and he just looked at her again for a moment before he kissed her.

 

It was familiar, warm and well-worn like a favourite jumper, something to wrap yourself up in on a cold night. Sherlock bent into it, not looming or dominating, but not shy, either; he laid his palm against the side of her face, her neck, his other hand moving lower on her back to draw her closer. She slipped her hands under his jacket rested them on his waist and then, as the kiss deepened, she used her fingers to inch his shirt out of his trousers before she went for the buttons.

 

She'd never undressed him like this. They were usually in pyjamas or just underwear and they mostly undressed themselves, less interested in the process and more with getting on with it. In her overall experience, slow, sexy undressing was more a thing people did in films and Mills & Boon than in real life.

 

Sherlock let go of her face and moved to help her along by undoing his cuffs with his arms still behind her. She got to the last button and slipped her hands inside his shirt and ran her fingertips over the hot, smooth skin of his stomach. He broke the kiss and stepped back just enough to take off his jacket, tossing it on the chair that had migrated into her bedroom from the spare room months ago—Sherlock's doing—and then followed it with his shirt.

 

His movements were careful, almost halting, and she wondered why. He went for the hem of her jumper; there was no sexy way to take off a heavy jumper, so she helped him out and peeled it and the t-shirt she had on underneath off herself, leaving her naked from the waist up. He reached out, rested his hands on her shoulders for just a moment as he looked at her, then skated his palms over her arms, down to her hands; he threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her closer, dipping in to kiss her again.

 

Gooseflesh rose on her skin from the cool of the room and from his touch. She loved it when he was like this—so sensual, _romantic—_ but she hated it, too, because she never knew what to do with it. It was out of place for what they had, what they were, sometimes even what she thought he was.

 

She gripped his hands tighter, pushed them behind him, crowded up into his space until her nipples brushed his chest. He smiled against her mouth, pressed in closer. She could feel his cock against her hip, hot and firm through layers of fabric; her own body responded with a wave of shuddery arousal that had her disengaging her hands from his to reach for the fastening of his trousers. She undid the flies, slipped her hand just inside to run her fingertips along his cock through the silk of his pants. He didn't always wear silk pants, sometimes he wore plain briefs. She wondered if he wore his special 'nice' underwear just for her, a bit like a girl. Silly thought, but she liked the idea anyway, that maybe he was making that bit of effort. At least he wasn't so metrosexual as to shave his bits.

 

Sherlock gasped against her mouth, running his hands over her arms again, then down her back to rest on her arse. She remembered being younger, hating when a man touched her bum because she thought it was too big, made her ugly. Even now, she sometimes had a flare of that old feeling, uncomfortable at the attention paid to her worst feature; it was a fleeting thing, there and gone and not enough to ruin the mood. She actually kind of liked the way his hands felt, big and warm and possessive, almost.

 

She pushed his trousers and pants down together, easing the elastic waist of the pants over his cock with as much grace as the situation allowed. He moved his hands from her arse to the front of her trousers while he shifted back; he seemed like he couldn't decide if he wanted to finish undressing himself or start work on getting the rest of her kit off. Both, it seemed, as he toyed with the button while contorting himself to slip first one foot, then the other free of his trousers, toeing them aside.

 

He breathed against her mouth while he worked her trousers open, pushed them down over her hips. He pressed one more soft kiss to her lips before dropping to his knees to remove them for her. He gently gripped her ankle while looking up at her; she used his shoulder for balance as he guided her foot free. He took a moment to massage her calf before moving to the other foot, then did the same to that calf as well.

 

She should be used to it by now, after a year, the way he could be sometimes. The way he could make her feel cherished, desired, adored with the lightest touch, with a look; for a moment she wanted to stop him and ask why he was like that, why he did it and what it _meant_. Just like all the other times, she couldn't bring herself to do it, swallowed against the wave of frustration his tenderness brought, refocussed herself in the moment.

 

He ran his hands over the tops of her legs, his thumbs circling over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs as he moved higher. He used pressure to urge her to widen her stance, shuffling closer on his knees until he rested between her legs.

 

Surely he wasn't going to—? He never had, _they_ never had, and she'd resigned herself to the fact that he probably didn't like to go down, and _she_ wasn't going to start handing out blowjobs like they were free pens at the bank and—

 

He kissed her inner thigh, looked up at her through his lashes. Was he asking permission? Giving her a chance to say no (like she ever would)? She smoothed his hair, touched the side of his face to encourage him.

 

She wondered if he'd done this for the dominatrix, if he was expecting—what _would_ he be expecting? To be slapped, have his hair pulled, for her to shove her fanny in his face and order him to get on with it? He never talked about it, never asked for anything rough, so she'd always tried not to think about what he might have got up to with Not-Her-Face. Maybe it had been normal; it wasn't like Molly really brought the office home with her (well, no, that was a lie, but it was easier to do paperwork on her sofa than it was in her broom cupboard of an office), so maybe the other one left her job at work. Or maybe he actually didn't like it and that's why it ended. Assuming it ended.

 

She stopped wondering—stopped thinking at all—when Sherlock skated one hand from her thigh to rest over her mound, traced the seam of her labia with his thumb before following it with his mouth. He started with a kiss, then a swipe of his tongue between her labia while using his thumb to find her clit. It was a bit awkward and artless, but he had his mouth on her and she closed her eyes against how good it felt. It had been way too long since a man had done this for her.

 

The hand still on her thigh stroked down her leg and back up, then up over her arse to rest there after a gentle squeeze. The hand on her mound moved to grip her hip as his mouth took over fully, the first brush of his tongue over her clit pulling a soft moan from her. She threaded her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his skull as he licked and sucked and kissed. His face was rough with five o'clock shadow, brushing against her inner thighs when his jaw moved.

 

His hand drifted from her hip to her breast, squeezing gently, flicking his thumb over the nipple. God it felt good, so good she was light-headed and her legs were jelly. She really didn't want it to end, but she was afraid she would lose her balance, and wouldn't a concussion or a contusion or a broken nose be a hell of a thing to explain to the A&E staff? Of course they'd all seen more embarrassing things, _she'd_ seen more embarrassing things, but she still didn't want to be on the other side of it.

 

"Sherlock," she said softly. Her voice was so breathy it sounded faked and she cringed inwardly. "We should—" she paused for a second, swallowing down a moan because he'd managed to create suction with his mouth and did a thing with the flat of his tongue at the same time and God, if she were just lying down or in a chair or something—

 

"Bed," she blurted, her hips jerking against his mouth involuntarily.

 

He seemed to disagree, gripping her arse harder and moving the hand from her breast to her ribcage to keep her in place. His objection only lasted a moment, though, before he eased off the suction and pulled back enough to speak.

 

"I won't let you fall," he said, his eyes heavy-lidded as he looked up her body. His mouth was still on her; he punctuated with a kiss.

 

Perceptive as always, though he could probably feel the tremors in her thighs from the air around his face, like a cat's whiskers. She might be a bit giddy.

 

"If I fall over, I don't think you'll be able to stop it," she said, trying to sound serious. Hard to do when Sherlock had gone back to flicking his tongue over her clit.

 

"Mm," he dismissed, the vibration sending a fresh bloom of pleasure through her entire pelvis. He did stop, though, even if he somehow made it seem like it was under protest. He turned his face into her thigh and scraped his teeth over the skin before pulling away entirely.

 

She backed away, stumbled the three steps to the bed and clambered up to the pillows, clumsy and uncoordinated as she pushed the blankets down. He crawled over her, hovering on hands and knees while she wrapped her legs around his hips, reached up to touch his face, ran her thumb over his slick bottom lip. He pressed a kiss to it, opened his mouth and bit down, grating his bottom teeth over the pad of her thumb before releasing it and leaning in to kiss her mouth again.

 

She could taste herself on him and she always loved it; it brought out a kind of primal possessiveness in her, as if she'd marked him with her scent like an animal. He moved, shifting himself into position, the head of his cock gently prodding the vicinity of her clitoris. The angle was wrong for him to be able to put it in hands-free, but the contact and the pressure made her squirm and moan against his mouth.

 

She couldn't take the teasing, she needed him inside her. She reached between them and rubbed him between her labia, savouring the moment before she positioned him. No condom; she trusted him to pull out. They'd mostly stopped using them, anyway.

 

They moved together, holding their breaths as he slipped in. He gasped against her mouth and pushed forward, sliding deeper before pausing, withdrawing the slightest bit, pressing on. God, he felt so good, thick and hot inside her. He rebalanced, slipping his arms underneath her waist and tugging her down the bed an inch or two so she was almost in his lap, her thighs over his; kneeling with his knees spread wide to either side of her hips was one of his preferred positions. She loved it too, the angle and the power behind his thrusts.

 

He started to move, fucking her slowly while he skated his palms over her waist, her ribs, her hips. Sometimes she couldn't believe he was real, that this was real; he wasn't just putting on a show or trying to impress her, he was getting just as lost in the sensuality of the act as she was. It was never just a utilitarian fuck with him, even when it was just to scratch an itch.

 

She moaned and gripped the back of his thigh, his arse, shifting her legs so they clasped his ribs, wanting him deeper.

 

"Good?" he murmured against her mouth between kisses.

 

"Mm, very good," she answered, letting her head drop back against the pillow, arching her back into it so she could feel the brush of his chest against her nipples.

 

He kissed her chin, her jaw, bent his head to kiss the divot of her collarbones.

 

"I want to try something," he said, his lips brushing against her throat.

 

He never really asked for anything, always content to let her lead or, rarely, doing something new without prompting, like the time he worked one of her legs over his shoulder and then pressed her thigh down to her chest or when he pinned her wrists above her head while he covered her from ankle to shoulder. Curiosity overtook wariness; she could always say no and she knew he wouldn't hold it against her.

 

"Okay," she said, a flutter of nerves in her belly despite herself.

 

"Put your arms around my neck and hold onto me," he said, running his lips over her throat before moving back to her mouth.

 

She did as he asked and his arms tightened around her waist, pulling her upright as he leaned back, his cock sliding deeper as gravity forced her down on him. She instinctively shifted her legs as they moved, her feet coming to rest on the bed just to the insides of his calves. He let go of her waist with one arm and planted his palm flat on the bed behind him, holding her tightly with the other arm as he leaned them both to the side. He bent one leg under himself and unfolded it behind her, then shifted his weight and straightened his other leg, drawing his knees up to butterfly so his thighs cradled her arse. She kept her weight on the balls of her feet and relaxed into it, letting him manhandle her rather than trying to move with him.

 

He shifted and they settled more comfortably into each other, taking a moment to adjust to the new position. She'd had a lot of sex in a lot of different ways, but she'd never done this before. She leaned in and kissed him again, rocking experimentally to get the feel for how it could work.

 

_Ohhh_ , she thought, using her thigh muscles to give her a bit of leverage. Sherlock moved his arm lower on her hips, used it to pull her into him, and yes, that worked. Jesus Christ did that work.

 

"Yeah?" Sherlock asked, leaning back to look at her face.

 

She nodded, smiling. "Oh yeah," she said. She made the mistake of glancing up from his mouth to his eyes; the look she saw there stole her breath.

 

She didn't want to put a name to it, there were too many things _to_ name; naked and vulnerable and apprehensive and pleased, hungry and confident and curious and something so intense she didn't know how to parse it. This was why she didn't look directly at him during sex, why she mostly kept her eyes closed; it was like staring at the sun. It was too much and she wanted more of it, the very thought of it making a shiver run down her spine as she throbbed around him.

 

She laid a gentle hand on the side of his face, brushed the tight, sweat-damp curls at his temple away with a fingertip; her heart felt so full she didn't know whether to laugh or cry or both. She leaned in to kiss him again, every exhalation against his mouth the words she couldn't ever say to him.

 

They began to move in a slow, rocking rhythm, Sherlock peppering her mouth and face with soft kisses as one hand roamed her back, the other anchoring his arm around her hips.

 

"Try—try crossing your legs behind me," he panted.

 

She did as he suggested, her thighs already beginning to protest their current position; the new position was somehow even more intimate, the angle bringing her face level with his and their bodies closer together. She was the passive partner now, her range of motion limited. She wasn't used to feeling this open, wouldn't enjoy it at all with anyone else, but with Sherlock... With him she felt safe.

 

She shouldn't trust him so much, the little voice in the back of her mind warned, she shouldn't let him in any deeper than he already was. She shouldn't let herself be treated so tenderly, shouldn't let him know she wanted that because he could use it against her one day and she was so far gone that she would probably let him.

 

She tried to put it out of her mind; she hated being so cynical even when she felt so much love for him that she was afraid she wouldn't be able to keep it all inside, but men were men and she'd been thrown over so many times that—

 

It didn't matter. She kissed Sherlock harder, pulled him closer. This was all that mattered, skin and sweat and his solid body, his hands on her, supporting her. Their hips rocked together, the movement shallow but his cock so deep inside her that she'd be feeling it for days.

 

It was obvious he felt no sense of urgency, wanted to make it last longer. She relaxed into it, arched her back, planted her hand on his thigh for balance; he bent his head to kiss her chest, her breasts, his hair tickling her throat. She held onto his shoulder and ground against him, tensing her thighs and squeezing his cock with her pelvic floor muscles while he fucked up into her.

 

"God, you feel so good," she breathed, dipping her head to kiss his temple, damp and salty with sweat. It wouldn't take much to make her come just from this, but she wanted it to last, wanted to hold onto him as long as she could before reality came creeping back in. She felt a tickle of foreboding; if something bad happened in Morocco and this was the last time, she wanted as much of him as she could get.

 

Sherlock tipped his face up and their eyes met for just a split second before he found her mouth again, sweeping his tongue past her lips to flick against hers. He was always passionate, sometimes overwhelmingly so, but it was is if he felt the same and he was trying to get as much of himself inside her as he possibly could. The thought of him not pulling out, deliberately finishing inside her, made her exhale a breathy moan into his mouth. He'd never do it, though; never had before.

 

It was such a stupid, dangerous, absurd thing to want, even if the chance of getting pregnant was almost nil. One time would lead to another and another until a mistake was inevitable and that just wasn't a road she could go down with him in any direction.

 

_One time won't hurt_ , she thought, playing it out in her mind's eye, imagining how his cock would get harder, thicker, feeling every twitch and throb as he filled her.

 

"Oh fuck," she breathed against his chin after breaking the kiss. The thought combined with the sensation had her skirting the edge of orgasm; it simmered under her skin, tight and hot and desperate and ready to boil over at any time.

 

"Molly," he panted, catching her lips again just to punctuate with a quick kiss. "I'm close. I want—" he groaned, pressing his cheek to hers, swallowing.

 

"I want to come inside you, just this once, please," he rushed out, his arms tightening around her.

 

"Yes," she said, letting go of his thigh and wrapping both her arms around his neck, clinging to him. She rubbed her cheek against his, kissed his jaw. "I want it, fuck, I want it so much, oh God, Sherlock," she moaned.

 

She threw her head back, neck muscles contracting involuntarily as she strained against him; he pulled her down harder, faster, gasping against her throat until he stilled, his whole body tense. He let out one strangled groan before he moved again, fucking himself through it. She didn't have the chance to relish it as her own orgasm began as a shiver at the base of her spine, blooming outward through her belly and along her thighs, up to her nipples, snatching the breath from her lungs. She curled around him, pressing her cheek to his temple as she held tight. She was made of light, incandescent and ethereal, like her skin could barely contain her.

 

Sherlock dropped wet, open-mouthed kisses to the crook of her neck, rocked them through the last of it while skating his palms over her back. For one glorious moment, she felt more loved by a man than she ever had in her life. She guided his face back to hers and found his mouth, ran her hands over his shoulders, his chest. Sherlock's now-flaccid cock slipped out and they both shuddered from the sensation. The kisses tapered off until she moved to rest her head on his shoulder and they simply held each other in a full-body hug.

 

"Was that alright?" he asked once he'd fully settled.

 

She laughed quietly into his shoulder, turned her face to kiss his neck. "Bit more than alright," she said, amused. She didn't have the brainpower to tell him just how good it was, and it would probably sound like she was overcompensating just to fluff his ego if she even began to try.

 

"I probably shouldn't have..." he said, the deliberate silence at the end of the sentence just as effective as words.

 

She was aware of the feeling of his semen leaking out of her and, instead of being mildly repulsive and embarrassing, it was oddly erotic. Satisfying, she thought.

 

"I'll get the morning-after pill. Just can't do it very often."

 

"No," he agreed before pulling back and brushing her hair over shoulder. He cupped the back of her neck, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the skin between her jaw and earlobe. She looked up at him; there was a kind of tension around his eyes that told her there was something troubling him.

 

"It's fine, it's something like 95% effective and it's not even a dangerous time for me right now," she said, trying to reassure him if that was what he was worried about. She suddenly felt awkward and exposed; the reality of what they'd just done was beginning to set in.

 

It shouldn't be any kind of big deal, it was just semen. She wasn't going to get pregnant, Sherlock had a clean bill of health. It wasn't something that had dire consequences, and yet she felt almost... ashamed? Embarrassed by her kink, by the significance she placed on a man ejaculating inside her. Especially a man whom she loved who gave little indication that he fully returned the sentiment.

 

"Mm." He pressed his lips together and nodded, looking like he was on the verge of saying something else. He didn't.

 

"I should probably go and—y'know," she said after the silence started to go on too long. She leaned in and gave him one more quick kiss, then extracted herself from his lap as gracefully as she could.

 

She tried not to think about anything while she was in the bathroom, but she reaffirmed her earlier decision: when he got back, she _was_ going to say something. Ask him what they were, what she was to him. She couldn't just let it be any longer, she had to at least know that. A simple confirmation or denial wasn't asking too much. Now wasn't a good time; she didn't want him preoccupied in Morocco if things got awkward or heated, or if it led to them ending it. And after sex like that, it would just seem like she was being clingy or needy, trying to extract a commitment. She'd let it go for months, another few days wouldn't kill her.

 

When she got back to the bedroom she found him reclined against the headboard, still naked, doing something on his phone. He set it aside and smiled, hopping off the bed and leaning in to give her a peck on the lips before murmuring something about grabbing a quick shower. She thought maybe there was an offer there, but it wasn't explicit and she didn't want to be wrong about it, make it weird.

 

She took her time getting dressed again, then made the bed. She'd change the sheets tomorrow, too late to bother with it now. She went downstairs to start her nightly routine of packing lunch and tidying and going over her diary to make sure nothing important had slipped her mind. Such a mundane thing to do after sex that intense, but it wasn't as though cuddling and pillow talk was on the table.

 

Sherlock buzzed into the kitchen and helped himself to a handful of biscuits and a glass of water to wash them down. They didn't talk; there was nothing to talk about, really, and bringing up the reason for his trip again probably wasn't a good idea. She would have offered him a sandwich or a cup of tea, but he seemed like he was in a hurry to leave. Sherlock went to the door to pull on his coat and scarf; she stopped sectioning her orange and wiped her hands on the towel to go and lock up after him so he didn't have to bother with his keys.

 

He lingered a moment, looked around her flat like he was making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, looked at her. "I should um—" he tipped his head toward the door.

 

She nodded; Sherlock made no move to actually leave. On impulse, she stepped closer and pushed herself up on her toes to give him a quick kiss. A normal-couple thing.

 

"Just, um, stay safe," she said haltingly, not sure why she felt the need to say anything when she never had before.

 

"It'll be fine. Shouldn't be gone more than a few days. I'll text you when we find her. Providing she doesn't shoot me again," he said, giving her a smile that was half-soft, half-sarcastic. The arse. He leaned down and kissed her, something longer, lingering, like he couldn't tear himself away. Finally he did, smiled again, and slipped out through the door.

 

She wouldn't see him again for four days; four days could well have been four years for how much everything changed.

 

 


End file.
